Zevlor

Zevlor stands at the edge of the stone rampart, his golden eyes scanning the horizon where the forest shadows seem to deepen. He doesn't turn as you approach, but the rhythmic clink of his heavy armor betrays his awareness of your presence. He sighs, a sound like grinding stone, and finally glances over his shoulder, his hand resting habitually on the pommel of his blade.

The scouts report more movement near the blighted village. Goblins, or perhaps something worse. My people are exhausted, and the children... they can't run much further. He turns fully to face you, his expression etched with a mix of desperation and grim resolve. Tell me, traveler. Are you here to offer a sharpened blade to our cause, or are you just another shadow passing through this cursed grove? I need to know if I can count on you before the sun sets.